


there are some questions a man doesn't need answered

by pesha



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:29:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pesha/pseuds/pesha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tate tries to share a moment with Ben five years after the Harmon's unfortunate end at Murder House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are some questions a man doesn't need answered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yosituna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yosituna/gifts).



"Doctor Harmon?"

Ben closed his eyes, brow drawing tight as he tried to convince himself if he simply didn't look at him, Tate would go away. He knew better than that though. It had been nearly five years since he'd died in the house that had been meant to be his family's second chance and he knew that Tate Langdon was one of the few things that could be counted on to always be around to drive him completely insane. The kid simply couldn't be deterred. 

Sighing, he said, "Tate, you know I've told you that I'm not your doctor anymore. I don't think I was ever your doctor. You were beyond help a long time before you walked into my office for the first time."

From what he knew, Tate had been dead for seventeen years before he'd ever seen Ben as a therapist. A joke of a therapist, Ben knew, since he'd lost his ability to feel confidence in his work years before he'd moved his practice to Murder House. 

That was how he thought of it, too: Murder House. He had thought that was so entertaining when he and Viv had seen the tour driving by with their bullhorn; they'd spent an evening drinking a rich red wine, laughing about how they lived in the infamous _Murder House_. It had been a night of genuine companionship between the two of them and Ben had really believed that there might be a chance for their marriage. He'd really believed they could have it all. 

"Because I'm a psychopath? Is that what you mean? You couldn't help me because I'm a _psychopath_?"

Tate interrupted his train of thought and Ben turned to look at him for the first time. There was always something shocking about the first glance at Tate. He looked---normal. That always threw Ben because he kept thinking that if he looked at him long enough, he'd begin to see the darkness, the pure evil inside him leaking out to the surface, yet Tate never even looked _dead_. He had never even seen a scratch on him from the wounds that had taken his life when Ben had seen more than scratches on every other spirit in the house. Lorraine Harvey and her two girls smelled strongly of the fires that had eaten them alive and all their bodies were little more than cinders. It was---disturbing how Tate looked entirely unscathed in death. 

He had grown so accustomed to seeing Tate as a petulant teenager, it was surprising to see that his shoulders were slumped, bowed as if under the weight of emotions Ben was still completely convinced the kid had no ability to feel, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles which made no sense as ghosts didn't need to sleep. Ben knew that he and Vivian could sit with their son together to rest, yet neither of them felt the urge to sleep. They had what he thought of as residual needs that sprung up from time to time for things that had been necessary to them while alive: food and drink, sleep, and sex. Those needs weren't anything more than mental from what Ben knew after five years of afterlife experience. Could it be possible that Tate was worn down simply from being _lonely_? 

Loneliness was something that even psychopaths could feel according to the research done in the field by clinicians far more effective than Ben ever thought he'd been himself. The DSM-IV had never stated that psychopathy was a diagnostic construct at all though he'd read enough on it to know that it was something that one could clearly be afflicted by and suffer from---in as much as one who was a psychopath could suffer from being one. If he concentrated hard enough, he could remember the Hare Psychopathy Checklist in his head which he compared to all he had to go on from being confined in a house with Tate Langdon for nearly six years. 

Ben decided he still thought it was likely that Tate _was_ simply a psychopath. It didn't matter if he looked tired or felt alone. He was psychotic. That he suffered didn't assuage Ben's feelings of hatred and revulsion for him. Tate was a monster. He had likely always been a monster. There were people who could pity those kinds, but Ben was far, far from that himself. All he could feel around Tate was a deep sense of sadness that this one man-child had lost him all that he'd ever loved in his life while simultaneously granting his wish that he never lose that same thing: his family. 

"What? Why don't you even want to talk to me? I don't _understand you_ ," Tate muttered, kicking the doorjamb to what had once been Ben's office irritably, "You're supposed to be a shrink. I thought all you guys ever wanted to do was talk to nutjobs and psychos. Well. Here I am! I'm the real deal according to you! Why aren't you even interested in _talking_ to me? I'd do it. Talk to you. Tell you anything. I would. I'd even be honest. I swear. What do I have to lose, right? I'm already dead. Violet hates me. **You** hate me. I'd tell you the truth if you just _talked to me_."

There was a faint edge of desperation to his voice that Ben could almost believe was sincere. It was possible that Tate really did want to simply have someone to talk with him, to share a few moments of eternity with, or maybe he was finally beginning to feel the need to unburden his soul or whatever one would like to call it when a dead boy wanted to confess his sins. Ben could honestly say that all of those thoughts were not entirely out of the realm of possibility. He was certain that talking about an issue brought a sense of relief, of closure to another, that they couldn't get from anything else; while he might believe that therapy was nowhere near what it was often touted to be, Ben still believed that there was a benefit to be had in sharing with another person.

Confession _was_ good for the soul.

That was the rub, right there, Ben decided as he silently stared at Tate, considering him from his tired eyes to his bowed shoulders down to his scuffed sneakers that had likely already seen too much wear long before the boy's death. 

He didn't _want_ to be good for Tate Langdon's soul. 

"Any curiosity I might have felt about you, about the way your mind works or the things you may or may not have done, or even about the things that I _know_ you did? Any of that. _All_ of that---" Ben paused as he closed his eyes again, determined once more to put this boy behind him as he finished, "It all died with me and my family. Now, go away, Tate. You and me? We're done here."

"But I don't---"

"Go _away_ , Tate!"

Ben practically shouted the order, his throat felt raw and his eyes were scratchy behind the lids though he simply sat there keeping them closed for a long, long time after the ghost of his former patient had left. He didn't want to take a chance on finding out what he'd do if Tate hadn't listened to him. There were some questions a man simply didn't need answered.


End file.
